


This Must Be The Place I Waited Years To Leave

by diopan



Category: Gintama
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-04-28 19:36:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5103146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diopan/pseuds/diopan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hijikata figures it's luck that Gintoki's left because he does that thing—distractedly rub circles on Hijikata's back while pretending not to notice he does—and makes Hijikata feel he's back at school, staring at Gintoki's white coat, the white back of his hair, his figure cut out into a sky too white, blinding, while unable to speak or do anything at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i waited by the staff room in time for benediction

Hijikata steps out into the night and watches the falling rain—a thin curtain in front of his spot underneath the eaves—before lighting his cigarette. The orange flame suddenly softens the red glow of the neon sign above. The new guy and Taro are out trying to convince people to come inside, holding out their umbrellas to shield them from the rain, while most just hurry their steps and do their best to disappear out of the reach of cheaply worded promises. At first he barely registers the looks on the faces of those who try to leave the new guy and Taro behind, hurrying themselves into the rain, their shoes splashing water onto their clothes, but then he recognises some of them, some of the looks. He's seen those before. They're lucky they're beautiful. The feeling of dread, mostly emptiness, is back, and with it anxiousness only comparable to the one felt during the last days of summer, when the sun is high, the glare blinds all eyes, and the sky looks almost white for a second. It's nostalgia for things that never happened, nostalgia for the future, the same one he felt when he was in school and his future was a road spread out for him to follow, made possible by Kondou's kindness. The road now covered in the looks of people hurrying into the rain, away from where he is. He grinds the cigarette stub into the floor with his foot without trying to avoid the sight of the people being approached by the two men holding their umbrellas. It's what it is, he thinks, it doesn't hurt at all anymore. Suddenly he's back at school, on the rooftop with its white tiles baking in the sun during the first days of the semester, his hand holds a cigarette as he crouches in a spot in the shade, hiding from the sun, hiding from the tiles that'll be cooked, decayed, hiding from Gintoki's gaze when he steps into the rooftop, glances at him, and says nothing for a second or two, before he too takes out a cigarette and smokes looking into the horizon, away from Hijikata's crouching figure.

 

When he steps back inside, Gintoki is no longer sitting at the booth. From other tables he can hear his name being slurred by various voices, Toshi, Toshi, beckoning him over and he takes his time before deciding on one. He figures it's luck that Gintoki's left because he does that thing—distractedly rub circles on Hijikata's back while pretending not to notice he does—and makes Hijikata feel he's back at school, staring at Gintoki's white coat, the white back of his hair, his figure cut out into a sky too white, blinding, while unable to speak or say anything at all. That's why he stepped outside with some flimsy excuse, and thinks he did so Gintoki would leave. In a week or so he'll be back. He'll ask for Hijikata, order three drinks and talk nonsense before his hand is rubbing circles on the low of Hijikata's back, and he's telling other customers who've dared sit down that he was Hijikata's teacher in highschool, that he's lucky to be so beautiful, that if it wasn't for his hair he'd be just as lucky, of course. The emptiness will be too much for Hijikata to bear, same as it was in highschool for different reasons. Everything about it is obnoxious, angering. Just like Gintoki. Hijikata wishes he had the energy to go at it against his old teacher like he used to, sometimes, but even the few times he has since Gintoki reappeared in his life are different. Maybe he downed his willingness with all the drinks, puked it out to keep going, mopped it while cleaning after Kondou, after the house, making food, waiting for Sougo to come back from school. It must be that because Sougo doesn't mock his career choice anymore. He didn't even do it more than a couple of times, the little bastard.

 

He's called to a private table by one of his regulars—the one who gets him expensive gifts he refuses with a smile—before he can sit down at a lively party of four, so he goes into the private room and slides the door behind him, lights another cigarette and offers his best smile. He wants to think he's giving nothing away, he's lucky. It doesn't take any effort anymore, to smile, and he wonders if that's anything he should be alright with.

 

On his way home, sweaty and tired, his head buzzing, he goes over the groceries he needs to buy, and Kondou's medicine that'll run out, the appointment coming up, Sougo's hand at the side of the door before saying good bye when he leaves in the morning for his classes, Kondou's hand years ago patting Hijikata's head after his brother's funeral, when Hijikata was only as tall as Kondou's hips and Kondou looked indestructible, and full of life, like his brother had looked once too. The wind blows in a certain way, making his knuckles ache, but he's too buzzed to really notice, to really care.

 

Once he's home he checks in on Kondou, who's asleep, before setting the futon down in his room with tired hands and falls asleep with the taste of Pocari in his mouth.

 


	2. to our voices nobody's listening

They're chanting for a girl to down a whole bottle of Dom Perignon and he feels like throwing up, even though he made himself puke just a few seconds ago. Once more, Hijikata glances around waiting to see if she's already arrived, fruitlessly. For a second, while he's still looking at the girl who's visibly uncomfortable with having to drink the whole bottle in one go, he worries that he forgot dinner, but it's Wednesday and Yamazaki'll be there to feed Kondo in Sougo's stead. He got the call as Yamazaki was letting himself in the house.

 

He looks up at the door and watches her come in: the studied, contained gait of one who knows where she stands and how at all times. He also watches her the day she answered the door in the morning when he didn't know how to say anything except that he'd called him beautiful and lucky again, now that he was leaving for university, now that they weren't in school, now that Mutsu looked at Hijikata with sorrow, like she was actually hurting for him. And the day she picked up the phone to cooly listen to his recount of Kondou's situation, when she'd nodded and despite not being able to see her he'd known she was nodding, her lips a tight line, and then surely, confidently said he should, he definitely should quit, or else he would regret it more than what he now regrets everything else, all the drinks, all the nights, everything else, she knew and he did too, that he'd regret it much more, if he kept studying, if he didn't give everything up for Kondou. Breaking his back for Kondou with a smile. Watches her the day Gintoki ruffled his hair as they crossed each other, and Hijikata angrily yelled at him, because he was the one who'd actually won the bet and Gintoki knew, but was too stubborn to admit, and Gintoki walked away grinning which made Hijikata's blood boil. Mutsu bluntly put what he knew to be true: that it was hopeless, and foolish, and other things she never said or even let on.

She sits at the bar before she reaches him and from her seat motions for Hijikata to sit with her, while ordering drinks for both of them. The first time she was here Hijikata insisted she not pay, insisted on not wanting her to, because she wasn't a customer, because he hated knowing if she did it'd end up counting as profit for him, that's how things are, but soon—he hates that word now—soon he stopped caring at all, whether she paid or not.

 

'When does your plane leave?'  
'In three hours.'  
'Europe this time?'  
'No. A different route, down south, longer shifts,' she sips her drink. 'How's yer old man?'  
'Same as always,' she already asked over the phone, like she always does, when she said she was in town and would stop by for twenty minutes but Hijikata doesn't wonder anymore why she asks about these things so often. He knows.  
'And Okita?'  
'Him too,' he says after a minuscule pause. He knows where she's going with this, even if where she's going involves no words, just a couple of looks that dig into Hijikata's ribcage until he lets it out.  
'I left the stuff I brought for Kondou at my place, pick it up whenever ya can. Still got the key?'  
He nods in silence.  
'S'not like I'd lose it. Was there last week, too.'  
'Burn anythin?'  
'Course not!' he scowls at her while she eyes him from the side, the beer tankard covering the lower half of her face.  
'Yer very unreliable at that, y'know?'  
'Didn't happen,' he makes it sound like a promise. He shouldn't because he knows how dangerous those are.  
'Alright. Don't take too long pickin the stuff up, food'll go bad fast.'  
'What you get him?'  
'The usual, those things he liked when we were in school. Brought ya some stuff too, that disgusting fancy mayo.'  
'S'not disgusting, s'fancy.'  
'Go pick it up soon or it'll stink up the place.'  
'Alright.'

 

She watches him while still facing forward, like she did in autumn of their first year in high school, when she replied to a question he didn't remember asking.  
'That's Mr Sakata. He's taking over Mr Hattori's classes. Sakamoto says he just graduated. Sakamoto recommended him so I don't trust him,' she'd glared at the back of the new teacher.

Despite his wanting to disagree, tell her in the end she did trust Mr Sakamoto, the way Mr Sakata walked—dragging his feet, his back slouched—stopped him, and he just nodded and looked away from the back of the white coat walking away from them.

'Matako's waiting for me for lunch. Wanna come?'  
'No,' he'd said, then added, 'thanks.'  
She'd stared only for a second—usually it was more—and her face didn't give anything away—maybe he takes after her—before she said: 'Alright. Don't eat by yerself.'  
He'd clenched his fist and ground his teeth and raised his voice to ask her what the hell that was supposed to mean but she'd walked away after saying 'Ya already know,' and he'd been left with his short fused temper to slowly boil over through lunch, alone, at his desk.

 

His voice—or the vein in his neck—don't raise at her comments as often, he knows. Now everything lodges underneath his lowest rib, coils around his lungs, inside them, in his stomach, every one of his organs, and it feels like he'll puke even when he hasn't drunk enough. It's the same feeling when Gintoki strokes his back. It's the same feeling when Kondou nods trying to say something they both know he can't say and tears stream down both their cheeks and they pretend it's fine like it is. It's fine like this.

Years have passed and the words he wishes he'd never heard come to him against his will: Gintoki is not Kondou and Hijikata is lucky, he's lucky in that particular way that makes him privy to force himself to throw up so he can keep sipping drinks customers want him to, and that which wards off their intruding hands and breaths, while his head swims far away almost lost, a memory he's living in that very moment, is the same alcohol he needs to be rid of.

 

Mutsu doesn't ask about Gintoki this time, and they don't cross words about it at all.  
Except when he sees her off, tells her it's been almost three weeks since Gintoki last stopped by, and her expression doesn't change at all.  
'Sakamoto said he'd be visiting,' she says staring out into the night. The wind blows the upturned lapels of her long coat and Hijikata shivers in the cold.  
'I see.'  
'I'll write soon as I can. Call if I can,' she says before turning.  
'Take care, Mutsu,' he tells the back of her coat walking away, and stares at it as long as he can, as long as he can remember.

 


	3. i dreamt i was back in uniform and a candidate for examination

Mr Sakata calls him over with a motion of his hand. Hijikata frowns, annoyed, but follows anyway when the teacher turns and starts walking, hands in the pockets of his coat. He wishes he didn't. 'What is it?' Hijikata says, his temper threatening to tip over the exhaustion after they've walked some steps and Mr Sakata hasn't faced him once. The armour is heavy and hot. He's sweating from the match. He's thirsty. His temper tilts side to side, dances over his heavy body, courses through his veins. He doesn't have time to play along some stupid game. Even if—even if he sometimes enjoys them, sometimes, sometimes. He doesn't have time now. He'll open his mouth, he'll say so, when Mr Sakata stops by the vending machines and puts coins into it, presses a button, and waits for something to come out of it, all the while not looking at Hijikata, or even giving any indication that he knows the kid is still there, donning kendo armour in a hot spring day. Nonchalantly, without a smile or anything resembling any sort of emotion on his face, he hands what the vending machine just spit out—a can of Pocari—to Hijikata. Hijikata's hands slowly cool to the touch of the chilled can, so does his temper, and a wave of cold shivers runs up his spine, he hopes it doesn't show, he hopes but it turns into embarrassment. When he opens his mouth to speak he can't. He can't because he knows there's something else besides the embarrassment, and he hates not having words for it. It's like sometimes when he's grateful for Kondo, and finds himself smiling even though he's alone, and it's stupid too, to smile for no reason, a smile coming from memories unconnected to what he lives. It's okay when it's Kondou because he understands, he knows. This impudent teacher, this bastard who enjoys competing with him, and despite being an adult not behaving like one, when it's about him Hijikata doesn't understand. He doesn't want to. Mutsu looks at him in a certain way when she watches the two of them betting or arguing or crossing paths, and he doesn't like it, he doesn't want to know what that way is. Sakata says 'Good match,' and Hijikata wonders why he was even watching it. He doesn't have time to mumble 'Thank you,' before the teacher is walking away. For a while he watches the back, the white of the coat, of the hair, until he can hear Kondou calling out to him, or is it Sougo, it sounds like Sougo but he knows it was Kondou who called out to him then, back then, after Gintoki walked away the day he won the kendo competition so many years ago when he was still at school, when Gintoki bought him Pocari and he was just some teacher, when he turned away from the teacher's back towards Kondou's smile, and tried smiling back but all he thought of. All he thought of was Gintoki's dream voice saying 'You're lucky you're beautiful' like it usually does.

 

Sougo's calling from the kitchen, it's his voice that pulls him from the memory.  
He gets up without hesitation because he knows it'll be easier to chase the dream away if he's distracted.  
'Is—' he starts but Sougo interrupts.  
'Kondou is fine,' he says, his back to Hijikata while he pours milk into a mug. 'Good morning, Hijikata,' his voice is low, 'You got in late last night?'  
Hijikata grunts in affirmation, looks around wondering if he forgot something important enough for Sougo to call for him before he leaves for school, if something is amiss, if there's something he needs to fix.  
'Ah, it's a shame I woke you up early then, isn't it?'  
Hijikata is still looking around and waves his hand distractedly before he realises. When he looks up Sougo is smiling, facing him. The bastard.  
'I'll be leaving now. Have a good day, Hijikata,' he says, 'I hope you drop dead.'  
With that he's gone and Hijikata's mood is too sour for him to have any recollection of the dream as he cleans the kitchen and fixes Kondou's breakfast.

 

He's right on time to watch the rerun of last night's _Beautiful Rain_ with the old man, Sougo must've turned the TV on for him, and Hijikata pretends not to cry over the dumb show when he wipes Kondou's face of snot and tears and all the time that's gone by between him kneeling, patting his eight year old head and now.

He speaks to Kondou and Kondou replies in the ways that he can and sometimes it comes easy to all of them. It's been seven years, after all. It's fine like this. It's been fine for a while.

 

The days waste away on their own right. None is similar to another, and they are all the same. Sometimes he thinks Kondou's made progress and he has to chase away the faint glimmers of hope with a glass of something hard, drown out doctors saying everything would be slow, don't count on it, maybe it'll never happen, maybe, maybe. He's suspended in time, he and Kondou. He squeezes Kondou's hand when he serves lunch and eats with him in his room, watching something else on the TV, one of the Ninkyo movies he's so fond of, starring Tsuruta. He stashed the DVD for this one into a box he never got the chance to open when he moved away for university and he opened it back up in this same home less than six months later. Hijikata yawns. He squeezes Kondou's hand again and is rewarded a smile before he takes the trays back into the kitchen. Windchimes tinkle and he watches water flow on his hands, grateful that at least Sougo's not stuck in stagnant pools of rotten time. It's just a second before thinking about her smile is too much like caring.

 

The wheelchair screeches, squeaking when he makes turns. Some of the neighbours, the people in the park, speak to them, to him. Hijikata used to hate the pity, barely concealed, in their tone, in the way they approached them. He'd be curt and disagreeable and all the things that were all too easy for him to be. Now it's different. He hates it still, but it's washed down. He grunts and frowns and people leave them on their way. He came against too many walls in one lifetime, too many backs—Kondou's, once broad and straight stares now at him crouched and small from the chair—walking away. He was bound to change.

 

He sits on a bench, Kondou at his side, staring at the children, elementary school kids scattered around the scalding hot playground, light blue dots on white and green, the sun beating down on their heads as adults look on from afar. There is Mutsu one day after kendo practice when she'd walked him home and they'd stopped to cool off. And Sougo when he first came to live with them, Kondou cheering him on while Hijikata hesitated, balancing softly on one of the swings before a handful of dirt hit him square in the face, courtesy of Sougo's unwavering arm, the wind rustling the trees, his hair, the fabric of Kondou's shirt as he ran towards Hijikata to see if he was alright. There he is as a child, weeks, maybe not that much time, after the funeral, and Kondou's bought him ice-cream—it's too sweet—and they sit at the bench, another park, another time. Somewhere in the way the wind blows hot he finds the night when Gintoki, he was Mr. Sakata then still, sat with him on the swings, shared their last smoke and he spoke words he didn't think he could ever share with another.

 

Mutsu calls from not Europe while he's making dinner. Sougo walks in from school the moment she's telling him about the last three flights, the places she's been, and how she only has half a day in wherever she is before she boards again, leaves again. Hijikata nods at Sougo's direction for a greeting and Sougo looks disappointed to see him still alive, then disappears into Kondou's room. Mutsu's voice wavers, and so does Hijikata, for a second, before they say good bye, she promises again to write, to call, and he hums his approval, says 'Take care' to a dead line, and leaves dinner ready before he steps out into the night.

 


	4. living a law just short of delusion

Gintoki's hand cups his when he lights the cigarette for him. Cool to the touch and pale, same as he remembers. Gintoki's face is far too close and he doesn't let go of Hijikata's hand once the cigarette is lit. It's all studied. He's had years of practice: this doesn't throw him off. He could've changed gears too, changed careers after some time but he never did, never found the time, it'd stopped for him, years ago. It might be years that he's been doing this, too, blowing smoke away from Gintoki's face, watching it linger. Gintoki showed up one day, out of the blue, in the wake that Mr. Sakamoto—Tatsuma he asked to be called that day—left behind himself when he stormed inside the bar. Maybe it truly was a coincidence, maybe they truly didn't know (Mutsu assured him she'd not said a word), and maybe Gintoki wasn't acting when he looked bored, almost sleepy, at Hijikata's wide eyes and upturned lips. The dread, the embarrassment, might have not been visible on his face, after all. It'd been a year, a little more maybe, already. Sakamoto had laughed too hard, the same stupid laughter Hijikata remembered, the one that made Mutsu's fists clench. He'd been as loud as he'd always been, slapped Hijikata's back and called him 'Toshi' far too many times. The subject of Kondou hadn't been broached—there was no need for it, maybe they didn't know, maybe they still don't —and Gintoki's face had been the same. It never got too close, and the white back of his hair had left in the wake of Sakamoto, just as he'd come in, bored and almost sleepy.

 

Two weeks later he'd come in alone. He'd asked specifically for Hijikata, and Hijikata was fully aware that he'd expected this with all the worry and all the anger he could muster.  
'What are you doing here?'  
'You're still lucky you're beautiful.'  
'Why're you here?'  
'Must be nice, being able to get by on just your looks. Handsome guys have it too easy. I mean, you're not that prettier than me, huh? Got it? It's just my hair. But it's really unfair, y'know? I have to work so hard for a living and you have such an easy life.'  
'You're the laziest bastard I've ever met!'  
'Aren't you supposed to charm me? Or is this your role? I don't mind, but I'm not into the M role, myself.'  
'Get out!'  
'Woah, woah, shouldn't you be nice to Gin? I'll ask another host to come pamper me--'  
'Then do so!' Hijikata had gotten up from the booth, walked to the bar, and missed Gintoki leaving. When he noticed, he imagined he wore the same bored, dead eyed expression he wore in class, when he taught literature, when he wasn't harrassing Hijikata over some stupid bet, some petty fight, or arguing with Sakamoto, who laughed stupidly and patted his back.

 

He didn't expect to find Gintoki back, asking for Toshi again, a week later.  
'Classes started.'  
'Ya watch the news, Toshi?'  
'Why're you here now?'  
'I like th’drinks. Don't have many nice things to say about the company.'  
'Moron, why aren't you back home?'  
'Ooh, Toshi, how cute! Didn't think ya'd call that place home. Are ya homesick? Havin’ Gin here'll help with that!'  
'Stop that, you idiot.'

 

That was the first time he'd distractedly rubbed circles on Hijikata's back while he leaned in closer, like he was trying to whisper without lowering his voice. In a way, it was much like before. When Gintoki leaned forward to pick up his glass the white back of his hair was all Hijikata could focus on. His stepping out for a smoke in open air; leaving Gintoki mid-sentence; the circles on his back; Gintoki's fingers playing with the short hairs above his nape; repeatedly asking Gintoki to leave, whenever he showed up, for twenty minutes or three hours, every two weeks or one, they were all part of a competition, a slow played hand of poker and all their cards up their sleeves, in the pockets of Gintoki's coat which Hijikata remembers to be sticky, in the smoke escaping his mouth, coiling around Gintoki's fingers. Hijikata has no idea what they're betting, what'll happen when one of them wins, and he puts his hands up every chance he gets, like he's passing this round and they're back to zero, listening to Mutsu tell him Gintoki and Sakamoto went back home for a couple of weeks, and that's why, that's why he hadn't shown. And Hijikata had noticed that he wasn't there. Like he'd sat out too many hands, too many rounds: he doesn't even know how to play poker.

 

Gintoki lets go of his hand to pick up his drink (maybe that's why his fingers are cool) and keeps babbling about a manga Hijikata hasn't read or even heard of—must be in Jump—while he looks somewhere else, somewhere else being pointedly at guests that sometimes walk by, sit at other booths.  
'In the end all those manga follow the same structure as **** ****. That manga perfected the genre and destroyed it, there's no point writing any more sports manga, they'll just be pale imitations, nothin’ can compare!'  
'You already said this.'  
'Hah? I did? But it's Gin's best theory! When did I say it, huh? This manga came out last year!'  
'In—' In an office flooded by sunlight where everything was white, Hijikata's hands were inside his pockets and he sat in a chair, in front of Gintoki's desk, watching the papers scattered on it—his own handwriting, an essay about his life plan, his university choices—framed by worn Jump magazines, textbooks, a cup of coffee, and the shadow Gintoki cast on the white surfaces as he leaned on the windowsill, smoking while he preached about sports manga, having told his student that smoking was not allowed in that office, or the rooftop. 'I'll tell you if you tell me why you're here.'  
The ices on Gintoki's glass clink, his shoulders slump as if he didn't notice them when he lets out a loud, annoyed sigh.  
'I thought it'd be fun to tease ya--'  
'For a year?' Hijikata interrupts, too loudly for his own taste.  
'—but it's gotten boring.'  
Almost, he almost doesn't get that part, just barely. But he does, hear it, mumbled with defeat and frustration, resentment too.

 

There's resentment in Gintoki's voice the first time he says Hijikata's lucky to be so beautiful.

From his desk, where he eats his lunch, the first thing he sees approaching are Gintoki's hands in the pockets of his coat. He didn't know yet the coat would be sticky to touch, it looked so white. Gintoki had looked at him with his lips upturned in mockery, and leaned down the slightest bit.  
'S'really unfair, y'know?'  
'What is?'  
'You've a horrible temper, a loner who eats lunch alone at his desk and you're still popular!'  
Hijikata watched his own hands put down the chopsticks on his desk, temper throbbing inside his head, his forehead, his neck. 'What!?'  
'You're lucky you're beautiful, you can be here eating your sad lunch and girls will still flock with their scented confession letters. Ah, s'really unfair. Gin never gets any letters. Must be the hair, there's no other reason cause you're a giant idiot.'  
The chair'd scraped the floor with its loud screech and had almost muted Hijikata's 'You're the idiot bastard!', had almost kept him from seeing Gintoki's triumphant smile.  
'Horrible temper!'

 

'You should go,' he says now in a soft voice, and doesn't look at Gintoki, doesn't wait before he's rising from the seat himself, walking away.

 


	5. i'm listening to words i thought i'd never hear again

Hijikata's almost halfway to the hospital when he realises he's been thinking about that woman Kondou was in love with—a parent at his highschool. Her kid plain, Hijikata vividly remembers him behind glasses, bowing politely, and how for some reason, Hijikata didn't hate him, which is more than could be said of other kids in the years below him. In his year. He dislikes thinking of her, traces of guilt gnaw at his insides because, wherever she is—back home most likely—she knows nothing of Kondou now. Maybe somedays she wonders where he went, wonders if Kondou is alright, wonders if the small shards of loneliness would be gone if he was still around. Hijikata also feels guilty for assuming she's lonely. Once, he'd wanted to let her know what had happened but days turned into months, and the months turned into years; going back home just to tell her seemed excessive, and a phonecall wasn't enough. Kondou doesn't mention her because he can't, because there is no way to let Hijikata know if and when he misses her, and Hijikata never asks. He doesn't want to. It's not cause for wondering: he knows Kondou must think of her, often, or at least at first he must've—too many years have gone by—so it would be fruitless, to ask. Even if she visited, if he had to stare at her face—Hijikata remembers it cold and angry in spite of cute expressions and tender smiles—if he had to stare at that face and it showed sorrow or pain or pity he would--Something. He doesn't know what but he hopes it's aggressive and violent, breaking furniture, tableware, throwing a fist unprovoked at a group of idiots standing around the convenience store, knuckles stinging with the crush against bone, lip, nose, feeling bruises being born, imagining them colouring in his pale skin. Nothing worse. Not sadness or pain or loneliness. Nothing about time stopping for them, about the roads that were so clear and bright when he was back in school and that woman chased Kondou away with anger.

 

Sighing he refills Kondou's prescription after speaking to the doctor and thinks he can maybe get Mutsu to get Sakamoto to ask around about that woman. He groans, rubs a hand over his face, his knotted brows. Thinking of Sakamoto only brings memories of the other idiot. Days off are almost always like this, mind filled with noise, same as ever. Other things barely register. The white of the hospital corridor, the stretched out qui, heavy silence broken by the voices and steps of those that come and go, some shoes squeak loudly but his shoes didn't make a sound when he ran the hallway back then, muttering to himself. At the end of it Sougo looked at him with a blank expression—Hijikata had thought of her and his legs had threatened to give in—which on him, on Sougo's young face looked empty, unfair.

 

Other things don't register but he barely hears the chirping sound of a voice calling out for Gintoki in broken Japanese, using a nickname, he barely watches a girl enter one of the waiting rooms, barely sees Gintoki, hands in pockets, follow her closely, dragging his feet as if making a gigantic effort, nagging at her—Hijikata can't hear but he knows Gintoki's nagging—and he barely notices he hasn't been seen and does his best to hide, to get out of there without anyone catching on.

 

There is no rush in his step when he undoes the road back to the house. His eyelids are heavy with sleep. That never changes on days off, his body knows, saves up on tiredness for the day of the week when he doesn't have to go in. It's with a tired mind that he ponders on the existance of the girl, and Gintoki's step behind her betraying familiarity. A friend? A ward? A sister? A daughter Hijikata doesn't know about? Why should he, he only knows that man trapped in the monotonous colours of an old public highschool, inside the dimly lit claustrophobic spaces of a host bar, words they exchange never go beyond irritated bickering and empty flirting, it never goes anywhere, they play their hands like children, nothing on the line and too many jokers. He imagines a wife with angry expression and a cold stare, a foreigner as dilligent and strict as Gintoki isn't, hidden tenderness expressed with resentment and precaution. He doesn't wish that on anyone, so he spares her. Maybe she left him.

 

Running into Gintoki outside, in the vast of their unconnected outside worlds, can't ever be good

He'd only been in university for one term when he ran into Gintoki outside school for the first time. Kondou had insisted they visit the town for the summer, wanted he and Sougo to visit her grave. Hijikata hadn't gone, in the end, he'd found his fist connecting with the face of some older kid who happened to remember how his punches felt like and wanted more, and afterwards, tired and angry, and itching for another fight, he'd found Gintoki in his path and his hands trembled into fists, impatient.

Gintoki, of course, was drunk, and had stared at his face with dead-eyed expression for too long. Hijikata could feel his sore knuckles getting worse from being strained, his nails digging into his palms would surely make them bleed.  
A second, only one more, and Hijikata would've spoken, but Gintoki walked towards him and his fists unclenched.  
'Ah, you really are beautiful' he'd said, and put a cool hand around Hijikata's neck. And Hijikata had let him.

He'd let him knowing, in all his capacity, that he'd used the same tone last winter to say this was annoying, to say it didn't make him happy.

 

Already he wasn't Mr. Sakata by then.  
Somewhere between bickering in hallways and Mutsu's glances, the can of Pocari and the cigarettes on the rooftop or the swings, the way his tone of voice gave nothing away during class, as if he couldn't tell Hijikata apart from anyone else, and the bets lost and won, he'd become Gintoki, and though Hijikata never called his name, he thought Gintoki knew, was so sure.  
Was so sure when he finished with kendo that winter day—he'd have to leave the club in some weeks so he stayed later—and was about to cross the gate when Gintoki yanked the cigarette from his fingers and he let out a yelp that made the teacher laugh—it was always a taunt, always derisive—he'd grabbed at the coat and Gintoki had kept the smirk on his face while he took a drag of the cigarette.  
'You're an idiot,' he'd managed, 'I hate you.'  
'Yer never honest, Hijikata, it's cute.'  
He was so sure, he'd let go of the sticky coat—two previous times had already shown him it wasn't as white as it looked—and had looked away. He didn't see Gintoki's face as he spoke, only the smoke from the cigarette spiralling upwards away from them.  
'This is annoying,' Hijikata heard with his gaze still somewhere else, 'it doesn't make me happy. I don't want confessions from you. I'm not Kondou, y'know?'  
He'd felt the end of Gintoki's jaw with his knuckles and he knew it must've hurt but still he felt shocked, and he would've, he was ready to apologise, but Gintoki grabbed his fist and stroked his thumb over reddened knuckles while his other hand rubbed his jaw—'Ow, that hurt, you moron! Gin's beautiful face! I hope yer fist hurts too!'—so Hijikata stood still, watching Gintoki's hand on his.  
When the complaints died down Hijikata's fist was let go and Gintoki ran both his hands through his hair and sighed loudly, his figure slumped.  
'Look, Hij--'  
'I get it,' and he hadn't looked at Gintoki, he hadn't waited before he was walking away.

 

Back then he knew, he wasn't stupid, not in this way. He knew one day he would forget how feeling all of this ever was. He knew one day he would look at the back of Gintoki, or think of his name, think of the way Gintoki called to him in class like he was anyone else, and it wouldn't hurt at all, it wouldn't even matter. He knew, because he knew of it, that he might grow to hate Gintoki, that even if for some absurd reason Gintoki felt about him in a similar way, if anything even remotely like love, anything like it, joined them at all then or later, that he still might grow to hate him one day, after months or years of love washed their colours down and all that was left to join them was frustration and resentment and boredom expanding as wide as the walls of the classroom where he stayed back for detention. That's how it is. That's how it always is. Back then he knew. He wished for it sometimes, not very often. For it to come to pass so he could forget about it, he wished this sometimes when he walked home, tired after kendo practice, when the wind blew the same way it blew years before, when he was younger and Mitsuba cooked for him and Kondou and Sougo, and Hijikata pretended he didn't look at her engagement ring and wonder. Back then, when the wind hit his tired face and he felt the calluses in his hands aching with the cold, he also knew that, because she was dead, because he never said anything, because he was a child, he was always only a child, he would never actually forget her. So he wanted to at least forget him, to hate him one day. Back then he knew and now he knows again that it might come to pass.

 

He pauses in front of the house, limbs heavy with exhaustion, and tries to yawn away the words in his mind, pathetic, disgusting. Almost ten years have passed since Mutsu first pointed out that man to him and he's still stuck back there, back then, everything's stopped, his heart, Kondou, time itself. The road that was so clear then is still laid out in front of him for no one to ever follow.

That's a lie of course, he's not there but at the start of his second term in university, when he ran the hallway of the hospital towards Sougo's empty expression and muttered things to himself, and thought of her, and thought of Gintoki, he's there when he'd been afraid. When Kondou had woken up that way.

 

Inside the house the windchimes tinkle and the water flows and time passes for no one. In his dreams Gintoki calls out to him after the match, her smile is tender and not for him, and when he wakes Sougo is leaving for school, wishes him dead, and Kondou thanks them both full of smiles, like not a day has gone by. Nobody did the things those teachers, and Gintoki, aimed for him to do, and he's still where he used to be.

 


	6. we shiver in the rain by the touchline

Light drizzle strums against his plastic umbrella and smoke trails behind him like a wake. Gintoki's there when he lifts his gaze, leaning against the entrance, protected from the rain by the eaves, but the cuffs of his jacket and the hems of his pants are wet, they give away his lack of umbrella. Typical.  
'Yo, Toshi,' he starts, lifting up his right hand.  
'What're you doing here?'  
'It's cold. I didn't know you had days off.'  
'What's tha—answer the question.'

Hijikata stands in front of him, under the umbrella, and the water falling from the eaves drops heavily on it in a steady stream, burying the suspicion that Gintoki was here last night, waiting for him. The suspicion that he hadn't gone unnoticed at the hospital.  
'M'not here to go inside.'  
'Then go away,' he looks down at his own foot, stomping on the cigarette stub, and walks by to the entrance.

Gintoki's hand on his arm feels nostalgic. He grits his teeth before facing him. His eyes do look different from up close, he's witnessed this before.  
'I don't wanna come here again,'  
'Funny way you got of showing it. Lemme go.'  
He does, but of course, of course, Hijikata lingers, his back slightly turned. It's the way Gintoki looks defeated and not at him, as if he's fighting a losing battle and pressing on because he's too stubborn to ever quit.  
'What do ya want?'

It's a prolonged moment of Gintoki finally looking him in the eye with those dead ones of his before he finally opens his mouth.  
'I don't wanna meet, here, anymore.'  
Hijikata turns to face him.  
'What does that mean?'  
'Oi, Toshi, you're an even bigger idiot than back then, huh? Didn't Gin teach ya how to read properly? That's why your grades were always so low, even when you copied offa Mutsu.'  
'I never copied off—Just be clear!'

Gintoki sighs and looks away again. Rubbing the back of his head he mumbles something half heartedly and Hijikata's patience wears thin.  
'What is it, I can't hear you, moron!'  
'I don't like this place!'  
'Don't come here anymore! And leave! You're bothering the customers.'  
'Gya gya the customers, the customers--'  
'What is it!? What do ya want?'

They're facing each each other again. Under the red light Hijikata can see Gintoki, his efforts to avert Hijikata's gaze etched into his features, painted in soft hues.  
'You said this was boring so why're you here again, huh? Why'd you come back?'  
He almost loses his balance when Gintoki grabs him by the shoulder. This has happened before, he does his best to not remember, he focuses on that, doesn't quite catch anything other than memories.

'What'd you say?' he whispers once the memories leave. 'Did you say Kondou, what'd you say?'  
Gintoki looks at him and Hijikata hates how he doesn't give anything away. He'd thought once he could see right through him but maybe it was just projecting, maybe he only ever wished he could.

'Yesterday—' Gintoki's voice is lower than his even, it trails off.  
'Yesterday? What about yesterday?' his hand has fisted around the lapels of Gintoki's jacket, the fabric soft and worn.  
'I don't like this place so I wanna go drinkin’ somewhere else.'  
'Huh? Go on then, no one's stoppin ya,' he lets go of the jacket in a swift motion.  
'With ya, I want you t'come with me.'  
His voice is even lower and Hijikata just stares. Gintoki's looking elsewhere, to where the new guy is calling people inside.

Doesn't do him any good to try and push away all the noise inside his head. How lucky he is to be beautiful, the feel of that hand on his bare neck, exposed back, the wind blowing into the wounds in his hands, from handling the shinai or breaking someone else's jaw, or that morning when Gintoki had chased him off so indifferently, like he'd gotten away with it and was too eager to dispose of evidence, and he'd run off to Mutsu's place, and seen it in her eyes, seen himself.

'What for?'  
'Haaah? What'd y'mean what for? To drink! What for! Are you an idiot? An idiot?'  
It's his turn to look away, cross his arms.  
'This is boring for me too, ya know? I don't wanna hear about—don't want ya to tell me--'  
'Tell you what?' there it is again, Gintoki's finger inside his nostril.  
About luck, and manga, and blinding white light against the tiles on the roof of the school, and all the paths he never followed, stagnant waters like hands clinging to his back, dragging him down, dragging others down with him.  
'Tch. Nothin’.'  
'Don't be stubborn, Toshirou, nobody li--'  
'Don't call me that.'  
'Can't be the first person to call ya stubborn, I'm sure I've called y--  
'You're an idiot.'  
'Called ya an idiot before too.'  
Hijikata lights another cigarette and blows the smoke away from Gintoki because that's what he's supposed to do.  
'So, y'gonna come?'  
'I'm working now, surely even you can see that?'  
'Yeah, yeah' Gintoki rubs the back of his head, stares at their feet, the crushed butts of cigarettes, wrappers.

Of course this only makes him irrationally angry. The new guy's got two people to come inside, and Hijikata nods his way when he turns to him with a grin. But then there's recognition in the new guy's eyes when he glances at Gintoki, and he looks away from them. Wouldn't matter what they think, Gintoki is often there, but he wishes no one could ever see. The thrumming of temper in his blood is directed at the new guy, too.  
'Look—'  
'What!?'  
'Just listen! Not now. Some other time, before work?'  
'Some—really?' He wishes it sounded more incredulous, more like he hates it.  
'Yeah. The afternoon, dinner, I dunno. That time,' Gintoki's still scratching his head—lice probably—bathed in red lights that make his eyes duller.  
'Can't' is all he musters up. He catches Gintoki's eye, then. There's acknowledgement, as if he knew, despite Hijikata being sure, wanting to be sure, that he can't possibly. That's what it takes, it seems. The smallest of hints.  
'I can't,' he says more forcefully, shoving Gintoki—he doesn't really mean to—'I don't have time to waste on you, on your pity, on your whims. If you're a customer, fine, it's fine, but I don't have any more time, ya hear me? And whatever ya know, just, just forget it, y'hear? Now lea--'  
'Oi, oi,' stronghold on his arm like in highschool, like after highschool. 'What's this about, huh?'

They look at each other. Hijikata wishes he didn't remember the two strays that would circle each other in the park close to his brother's house, cautious, slow. He's supposed to dislike cats, why should he remember them? Remember feeding them?  
'Everything, everything, you! Comin' here, after all these years, pityin' me cos of Kondou? Fuck off.'  
No reply. Gintoki's eyes on his don't even give away that he's switching focus.  
'I don't p--'  
'Don't you fucking dare.'  
'I want ya to come with me.'  
'I'm work--'  
'I know, stupid. Tomorrow. Before work.'  
'Toldja I can't. Are ya deaf now too?' When she stares, Mutsu's eyes dance from side to side as she adjusts, why don't his?  
'Gin might be old but not deaf! If ya feel the need to flaunt yer youth you're not really living it to a fu--'  
'Fuck off.'  
'Just a couple,' he says then. 'Not here.'  
Hijikata grunts, watches the cigarette fall from his hand into the ground and grinds his heel on it. At least there are no more eyes from up close.  
'There's an eatery, four blocks down. I'll be there.'  
'That all?'

He can feel Gintoki staring, knows his finger is up his nose, digging, but he doesn't look up because if he did he'd have to punch him.  
'Yeah, that's all.'

Finally, his sigh seems to say, he makes his way into the bar, the dim glow of the lighting washing everything cheaply, pale dirty yellow that smells and tastes like booze and sweat and alcohol used as perfume. Mitsuba always smelled good, airy, cool like night breeze and too much effort and pretending the ring wasn't there on her finger and she didn't cough too much and he wasn't a child or she was one too and they were allowed, at least once, to finally meet. Gintoki always smelled stale, a closed room, clothes that have been stuck in the drawer while still damp, sun baked tiles and the dirt in the park, his sheets smelled like his hair on sunny days, unwashed softness and deceptively pristine white. He'd fallen for it willingly, lunch at his desk with Gintoki by his side discussing Jump mains power levels—Hijikata had no real input he would betray himself with—and evenings after practice, trailing the path towards the entrance of the school sharing a smoke and a laugh at Itou's expense—before Gintoki slapped him on the back of his head for making fun of his fellow students—and drinking Pocari on the way to a family restaurant to celebrate him winning the competition—Kondou had told him to invite his teacher but Hijikata had shaken his head and scowled—and on the swings of the park where he found himself speaking of his brother's back when he carried him and Kondou's hand ruffling his hair, and even, without noticing or wanting, the chilling whispers of the wind on the nights when he returned from the Okita dojo and his bones ached inside his skin to which Gintoki hadn't said a word.

 

By the end of the night the rain has died down, replaced by a freezing chill that sticks to his back. He's drank far too much to make his way to the house so he stumbles into Mutsu's empty apartment and wraps himself in blankets on the couch. It's a Wednesday so it's fine, he can do this, he can bury his face in his hands. In the morning Yamazaki will still be there. There's a spot in the ceiling he's memorised, from all the nights he's done the same, been carrying far too many drinks and whispers and undesireable hands on his skin and his stomach to return to a place where Kondou is, where, despite being asleep at the late hour, Kondou might somehow know. When he dozes off the cigarette burns a hole in the blanket he'll only discover in the morning.

 


	7. a litany of saints and other ordinary men

'Spent the night away, did you, Hijikata?' Sougo's at the door, his uniform shirt open to a Superman one underneath. Hjikata's too tired to tell him to button up, to look presentable. The long gone disciplinary committee president in him is awake in the misty haze of early mornings after late nights but not strong enough before coffee to be capable of speech so he grunts a farewell and walks past him into the house.

It's exceptionally easy to forget, mornings like this especially, that Yamazaki is Kondou's age and not Sougo's, so he bites his tongue on asking why he's washing breakfast dishes and not going to school with those his own age, but he manages a pause at the entrance to the kitchen and a mumble of good morning that's returned with surprise.  
'Are you tired, Hijikata?'  
'M'fine. Thanks for yer help.'  
'Thank you,' Yamazaki says politely. He'd laugh at the thought but he simply walks into Kondou's bedroom, where the television is running _Beautiful Rain_ , a repeat.

'We watched this one already.'  
Kondou watches him sit by his side with that expression Hijikata knows says 'Toshi!', says it not in the way customers at the bar do, not in the way anyone ever does, anyone at all anymore.  
'M'sorry I'm late.'  
Kondou nods with a faint smile.  
'Yeah, yeah. I'll tell her you say hello and ask her to get ya the banana treats.'

Immediately he looks more excited, even when his expressions change only slightly, barely. Hijikata knows he'd be able to tell their meanings even if so many years hadn't passed already. He was able to tell when it first happened. Kondou cries when Miu picks the four-leafed clover to put in her small plastic case carefully, and Hijikata pretends not to. He knows what comes after, but he still has to pretend. He puts a hand to his eyes and then holds Kondou's hand with the other.  
'S'just the heat, Kondou,' he says, to himself as well, but when Chieko asks why Miu was all alone, Kondou squeezes his hand and Hijikata buries his face in his own even deeper.

 

Yamazaki eats lunch with them, mostly in silence. And in silence he sits with Kondou while Hijikata cleans up. While making notes of all the things he needs to buy and take care of, Hijikata doesn't stare for far too long at the water running through his fingers. It's a clear day, colder because of it, and Yamazaki helps him wheel Kondou to the park before leaving to his own life, an uncharted territory Hijikata would never trespass nor cares to. Wrapped in their scarves, he and Kondou look out onto the playground, they hear soft creaking coming from the swings where two children are too wary to go faster, and acknowledge those who nod greetings their way. This park is so small, he thinks, so cold when the leaves sway in the soft winds. Only the park and the house and the hospital and the bar. Not much else. Before that, it was the school, the rooftop, another park, a different town, different winds, different nights. There are no memories of his brief time in a university he quit so its architecture never pops up, as if it didn't exist. Certain streets, at certain times of day, are recurrent, as well. In dreams and memories. The Okita dojo and her table set for the four of them sometimes but never often. He's secretly grateful for it. The taste of Pocari and the smell of the night breeze float here and there, punctuated by Kondou's hand on his head, and his brother's voice, distant but not faint. Deceptive whiteness and the spot in the ceiling of Mutsu's apartment. Everything's been reduced to not much else, fragile territories he has mapped and memorised.

 

It's Kondou who first sees Sougo approach them. By his sillhouette Hijikata knows he's been to the house already, left his school things, his gear, before he came to find them. This doesn't happen often so he tries not to wonder why there's been that change, why he hasn't walked Kondou back to the house just yet.  
'Hello, Kondou. I can call the police so they take this creep away, if you want.'  
Kondou replies with a smile, so much tenderness, the kind it's best to look away from.  
'Isn't it too early? Did you cut school?'  
'Don't worry,' Sougo sits down on the opposite end of the bench. 'I'm doing my best Hijikata. Which is more than I can say about you.'  
'Oi, what's that for?'  
'It's free today, I'm feeling generous.'  
'You little bastard.'  
'Hijikata, you should work on your insults. They're always the same. You can try "Hijikata's a creepy, disgusting shit that smokes too much".'  
'I'll kill you.'  
'Just kill yourself, please.'  
'You litt—shut up.'  
'See? So lame,' but he trails off, his focus on Kondou.  
Hijikata turns to watch Kondou and finds tears in his eyes.  
'Why're you crying?'  
'Hijikata, you're so stupid.'  
He realises then, and he does feel stupid.  
'Gah, don't be so corny, what're you getting all happy for? That's disgusting, Hijikata.'  
'I'm not!'

Kondou's tears speak of happiness, sincere and joyful, as if he too understood that at least the stagnancy of time preserves this kind of ritual. Sougo who wants him dead and Kondou who loves them both. Kondou who takes in problem children who've been left behind by death and loneliness and their own desire to push everyone away and burn all their bridges. He hesitates but then dares to ruffle Kondou's hair and he knows those tears spell 'Toshiii!!' with the kind of genuine glee only Kondou can be capable of. Kondou who cries too easily and laughs too loudly while tears and snot run down his face, Kondou who puts his hand on his head after the funeral, and smiles to him when he's won the competition, and holds onto his hand watching dramatic television shows, and makes sure Sougo doesn't have to be alone when the worst of her illness strikes in the same way that Hijikata now tries to make sure Sougo doesn't have to remain stuck behind in the whirlpool of muddy water that is their home.  
'Hey, that's unfair, Hijikata. You'll get your revolting tobacco smell on him.'

 

Sougo pushes the chair on their way back and when Hijikata stops at a convenience store he keeps going, to be caught up with later and met with indignant anger.  
'I told you to wait!'  
'You should've gone to the store some other time. _My Second Last Love_ will be starting soon.'  
'S'a repeat.'  
'Ah, so you knew? I thought you didn't care.'  
'I don't!'

Kondou looks to both of them with kindness and Hijikata doesn't protest anymore.

 

At home he fixes dinner while Sougo and Kondou watch the show, tries to catch what Chiaki's saying even though he watched this episode months ago, and the phone rings almost on cue.

'How's your old man?' Mutsu asks at the other end of the line, static running through the wires.  
'Fine, says hello. He's watching some dumb drama.'  
'Are ya missin’ it because’a me?'  
'No! How're ya?'  
'Ev'rything's smooth. Been here four days.'  
'Sounds good.'  
'And you? And Okita?'  
'Same as always.'  
More static, white noise like endless rainy days in the background, malfunctioning electricity.  
'I'll be there next week. Go home and then be there. Couple a days too.'  
'Hm.'  
'Need anythin’?'  
'The usual. An’ I burnt your red blanket. I'll replace it, but you should know.'  
'Ya gotta stop that.'  
'Yeah, yeah.'  
'Go watch yer show.'  
'It's a repeat.'  
'Uh huh.'  
'Take care,' he says and this time she's there to hear it. He thinks there'll be a pause, or more static. But he's wrong.  
'Ya do that too,' she says and then a click.

 

He's greeting Taro inside the bar when he remembers. A pang that he has to calm down, he didn't make any promise to meet him. He didn't give his word. And even then, even if, he never said it had to be the next day. Surely even someone like him would understand. Surely even he would understand, sitting at the eatery alone in wait. A pang that he has to calm down or it'll rise from the pit of his stomach. It'll be fine, it's fine like this, it's fine like it is. A customer requests him and he downs a glass before he has time to take notice of it all.

 


	8. history, someone had blundered

Hijikata steps into the eatery—it's only seconds before the rain starts pouring down—after putting his cigarette out on the ground. As soon as he does Gintoki's low voice reaches him. He's engaged in a passionate, surprisingly not one-sided discussion over Jackie Chan's performance on the _City Hunter_ adaptation—a tirade recounting scenes and meanings Hijikata has heard before, trapped in the white confines of a classroom where he had no choice but to listen—and he's sure he couldn't have arrived at a worse time.

'Oi, Toshi, what d'ya think? D'ya hear this guy?'  
'I heard you yapping.'  
'You're so cruel,' Gintoki pouts.  
The discussion is abandoned, to the fortune of, Hijikata imagines, Gintoki's miserable listeners, forced to play along, because no one can care as much as Gintoki for that movie.  
'You're so childish,' he tells him, settling into a seat that he gathers has been reserved for him.  
'I'm young at heart!' Gintoki takes a long sip of his beer. 'I didn't think you'd show,' he adds with less enthusiasm.  
'It's only been two days,' he swallows the pang on his own, doesn't give it away.  
'Wha’? It's been four, ya can't even count. Not yer fault, Sakamoto's a lousy teacher. But I wasn't here yesterday, I got other things to do too, okay?'  
'Sure. What's good here?'  
'Everything since mayonnaise isn't allowed.'  
'What?!'  
'Yer so gullible,' Gintoki's eyes are full of boredom, he doesn't even smile.  
'You're an idiot. I didn't believe you for one second. Was playing along cause I'd feel bad if your dumb jokes fell flat.' The colour red prickles all over Hijikata's skin.  
'My jokes ain't dumb. You bought it, don't lie!'  
He shakes his head, lighting a cigarette, the itch dies down.  
'They've always been terrible.'  
'Ya mean ya've been pretending to be gullible all this time, all those years? Falling for the simplest of things, to make me feel better?'  
'Eh, eh...'  
'Well, well, isn't that something?'  
'No, that's not what I meant, moron.' The itch comes back.  
'But it's what ya said. Aren't ya kind, Toshi?' his head rested on his fist, Gintoki stares at Hijikata from his seat with eyes full of mockery, almost sparkling like they do from up close. 'So considerate.'

He's about to put up his hands, like he's foregoing this round (he doesn't even know how to play poker) because it's fine like this, it's fine like it is, easy discussions in neutral ground that never step out into unmapped territories or uncharted waters. Gintoki exists in certain confines—the classroom and the bar—and he should never leave them. But here he is, now, ordering a dish for himself, and more beer for the two of them, and an almost smile wrapped around his cigarette, and they're not confined by any kind of familiar ground. The sound of running water punctuates Gintoki's loud, disrespectful gulping that he's had far too many years, too many lunches at the desk, to get used to. He's not ready for the eatery to be inserted in the not much else that he knows so well, the park, the bar, the house of stagnant waters. This appears to him, strangely full of calm before the prospect, as a way out, some kind of path opening up slowly, some kind of building he can almost envision being structured, hazy with all the memories and the smoke and unmoving whirlpools that are slowly setting loose, a sketch too hard to read but unmistakeably laid out in front of him. A way down for him to follow, out of wherever it is he is now.

'Not at all,' he says when the owner brings him his drink, 's'just my job.'  
Gintoki stares at him for a while, in silence, then scowls.  
'Ah, you probably think that was cool, aren't you embarrassed?'  
'Moron! S'not embarrassing!'  
'I'm telling ya it is! I'm embarrassed for you!'  
'Don't be!'  
'It's hard if you just tell me, after what you said!'  
'Just forget it then,' he hides behind the beer glass.  
'That's also hard to do, since ya went to all that trouble to sound cool.'  
'I wasn't tryin’ to!'  
'Are you saying it comes natural to ya? Are ya? That's even worse, ya know? Ah, I'm so embarassed now, I don't know if I can stay.'  
'Then don't but I'm not paying for what you drank, oi. You invited me.'  
'Oi, Gin's not rich, ya know? Ya want me to pay? Is this a date?'  
'Of course not!'  
'What is it then?'  
'Just drinks! S'what you said, isn't it?'  
Gintoki laughs, almost maliciously, 'Ya really are gullible.'  
'What's that supposed to mean, huh?'  
'Yer unexpectedly pure. A pure host, is that yer angle? Ya reel them in by lookin’ cool and get them to come back by bein’ helplessly simple?'  
'I ain't simple!' he blurts out, automatically. It isn't that which he wants to protest, but the owner gets them both their bowls of noodles, and another round of beer, and he feels he's been robbed of the chance.  
'Ya are. Ya ain't honest but somehow very simple, very pure. Yer looks sure are deceiving.'  
It takes him a while to gather some kind of strength, but he's able to while they focus on eating for a while.  
  
'How's it unexpected?' he says finally, over Gintoki's loud chewing. 'You said the same thing back then when I didn't wanna take off my shirt.'  
'Oh.'  
When he looks up from his plate, Gintoki looks like he's surprised, maybe confused.  
'What? What's that look for?'  
'It's been a year and you've never brought that up.'  
'I didn't think you'd remember, with your messed up head.'  
'Ah, that's true. But I didn't forget.'  
'Forgot you said you weren't Kondou before that?'  
'What do ya remember everything for?' Gintoki's surprise fades, boredom and uninterest return, he sticks his pinky in his ear. 'Can't be good for ya.'  
Can't really help it, he wishes to say, but lights another cigarette, his food is done. It's easier to leave, he has work soon anyway. It's easier but he doesn't want to lose this round, or give it up.  
'How's the town?'  
If Gintoki's taken aback by the change of topic he doesn't look it. Hijikata gathers he's had enough practice the last year, both of them have, to handle the whiplash of this sort of thing with some grace.  
'Same as always, miserable. ’Side from Sakamoto I dunno anyone there.'  
'Some of my classmates still live there, ya'd know’em.'  
'D'ya even remember them? I don't. Even that idiot Zura got out of that dump.'  
'What about...' he doesn't finish and stares at the cold noodles left on his plate, traces of mayonnaise on the borders of the bowl.  
'Who? Some highschool sweetheart? Don't be shy, Toshi, tell me who ya wanna know about.'  
'Idiot! Nothing like that!' Familiar pain creeping up from the corners of his adolescence, when she asked if he liked anyone at his school, when Gintoki pestered him to talk about certain things.  
Gintoki watches him for a while in silence.  
'Okay, okay. Who ya wonderin' about?'  
Hijikata's the one to pause this time.

'The Shimura people,' he says, effort almost palpable behind his words.  
'Ah,' there it is again, the recognition in his eyes, a flash. 'They're in Tokyo now.'

Later he'll be able to wonder why some weight feels like it's been undone, some of the inner knots at the pit of his stomach lessened. Later, he'll be able to wonder endlessly whether this is something Kondou should hear about, that woman, and where she is now. For now there's satisfaction in the loss of something that felt straining on his guts.

'They visit me too often, I can get ya in touch with them.'  
'Who asked ya to?'  
Gintoki shrugs, takes out a cigarette and pauses imperceptibly, probably unused to the fact that Hijikata doesn't have to light it for him now, so he does it himself.  
'Ya know they're playin’ _Kantou Wanderer_ in the theatre near my house,' he says letting out smoke almost directly into Hijikata's face, thin mist from long ago.

 

He'd been looking at the DVD box—a gift from Kondou, it'd been recently released—on the roof, a cigarette on his lips, when Mr Sakata stepped outside with one of his own. It was cloudy that day, the sky above them still impossibly white, and all around the worn tiles. The teacher had asked to see it, crouching down at his level, before saying he figured Hijikata would be one of those, and though he asked, loudly, angrily, what that was supposed to mean for all answer he got that it was forbidden to smoke at school, and he could confiscate the DVD, and the Mayoboros, and everything else in Hijikata's possession if he wanted to, but all Hijikata did was wonder if he really wanted to, and how easy it would've been for him. Mr Sakata had looked at the box with the same boredom he granted everything else, then returned it to walk away and smoke leaning on the railing, his white back to Hijikata.

 

There's no way he remembers that now.

'I didn't know.'  
'Yeah. Well, I didn't bring it up for nothin’, ya idiot. Learn ta read the atmosphere.'  
'Read what?'  
'I'm askin’ if ya wanna go see it!'  
'Wha—with you?'  
'No! On your own! Yes, with me!'

The eatery, their table, the way Gintoki smokes his cigarette, it's all well, this kind of unfamiliar ground. A movie theatre, an excursion outside confined spaces, like this one but even bolder, in the dark, that's a different story. Not replying is as far as he can go without losing this round.

'Have days off, don't ya?' Gintoki says to Hijikata's silence. 'They're showin’ all of Suzuki's films this month. I'ven't watched them and since yer always talkin’ about the Ninkyo types...'  
'You're the one always talkin’ about movies and manga.'  
'Yeah, yeah, y'wanna go or not?'  
'I dunno, I'll let you know.'  
'So yer gonna come again?'  
'I might.'  
'Don't count on me bein’ here! I've things of my own to be doin’!'  
'When's it playin’?  
'Huh?'  
'The movie, ya idiot. Shouldn't ya get your head checked?'  
'My head's fine! Every Sunday this month.'  
Hijikata knows, by the way Gintoki says it, that he's asking if he can this Sunday, asking for a reply without opening his mouth, because he too doesn't want to lose or give up any of his rounds. At least on that they agree.  
'Can't this one. Took the day off cause Mutsu's coming in.  
'So ya still see her, yeah, I think I heard something from Sakamoto. Next one then.'  
It's not a question. Hijikata should've known it wouldn't be.  
'Yeah,' he says, his gaze set on the noodles. 'Next one. I gotta go.'  
'Sure.'

Gintoki doesn't get up when he does, so Hijikata approaches the owner and only pays for his half.

'I'll see you,' he says, his back to Gintoki, and doesn't wait for his reply.

 

At the bar he watches a customer down an entire bottle of champagne while others cheer him on. His shirt is off and his tie around his forehead, like he's in some sort of dystopic urban battle ground. Hijikata tries not to think of Kondou, the times he witnessed Kondou drink too much with old Matsudaira. Back home. He didn't have enough at the eatery, so he has two drinks before he's really ready for the night.

 

On the walk home he notices he's not as buzzed as usual, memories are less heady, more willing, as if he's invited them in and doesn't make any effort to push them away. He checks in on Kondou who's asleep and sets his futon in his own room, the feeling of Mr Sakata's fingers when he took the DVD from him on the rooftop like soft tingles on his skin and before he falls asleep he notices a soft smile.

 


	9. when we fall in love there's confusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for having read this ; happy new year

On the screen, Tetsutaro calls on his brother Kenji, and Hijikata can feel the sidelong pressure of Gintoki's forearm on his, both rested side by side on the armrest. They couldn't catch _Kantou Wanderer_ but _Tattooed Life_ , Hijikata remembers, is just as good. Sometimes his hand and Gintoki's touch, fingers curling together, but then they don't.

 

Within some weeks, the eatery's become familiar ground. That Sunday, Mutsu's expression hadn't given anything away, but she'd asked him to be careful, before he could say it to her, by the end of the night when he walked her to her apartment and he mindlessly said some days Gintoki didn't show, but then again some days he didn't either. 'Take care,' she'd said slowly. 'I know,' his speech heavy with alcohol and memories, and she'd smiled. 'You look good,' was said with sincerity so he believed her. He didn't tell her that some nights Gintoki walked with him until they reached the bar, then left with his hands stuffed in his pocket, his slouched gait unchanged through the years. After he'd left her at her apartment door and as he walked back to the house he'd wondered why.

 

The answer of course came to him the following week, when Gintoki had again walked with him, and Hijikata had found himself lingering, holding back, staring at Gintoki, both of them under the eaves, their faces close together, watching, as if he—and maybe Gintoki too but he couldn't know—expected something. He'd finally turned sharply, full of that familiar loathing that squeezed the pit of his stomach with emptiness, against himself, against Gintoki, against the kind of memories he wished he didn't keep. That second Sunday he'd said he had work, and they could catch the film another time, but there was an unavoidable pang that'd made him fall too easily when Gintoki asked if he had Wednesday off.  
' _Tattooed Life_ is on Wednesday, ya like that one?'  
'I have things to do.' Hospital runs, grocery shopping, walks in the park, and some new drama that had just started.  
'We won't meet till the afternoon.'

 

He does his best to keep his eyes on the movie, the brothers' escape towards Manchuria, some semblance of hope on the horizon that he knows will be cut short. He does his best not to be distracted by Gintoki's eyes on his face. He fails only twice. Gintoki's lips aren't dry and chapped, they're the same as in memory, sometimes in dreams, soft and too sweet from the milk he'd been drinking, his breath a little stale, and they open later to complain about Hijikata's cracked lips, the loose pieces of skin caught between them. 'S'cause ya smoke too much,' his whisper is low and rich and Hijikata looks back at the screen. He'd light a cigarette just to spite him but he smoked the last one before they entered the theatre. Gintoki leans in very close and whispers something in his ear, soft and low, some dumb comment about the movie that Hijikata wishes he could correct, teach him to appreciate the subtlety, but he's shivering so he just shakes his head.

Their hands curl into each other one last time before the credits roll, then separate abruptly, the same way they both stand and step out of the darkness.

 

They stop by the corner shop just outside the old theatre for more cigarettes. The evening sky is overcast and Hijikata's sorry he didn't bring his umbrella while he looks up at it and takes out his lighter.  
'Ya have the day off, no?'  
'Already said I did. Go see a doctor about yer head,' his words come out enveloped in smoke.  
'Doctor says I'm fine! I drink enough milk to have no problems.'  
'Except diabetes,' he starts walking so he doesn't have to look at Gintoki's face.

'Oi, how'd ya know?'  
'...' now he turns to watch him. 'Don't tell me it's true...'  
'It's not, it's not,' Gintoki scratches his head, damn lice. 'Just a risk,' he trails off, to create a pause, Hijikata's sure, so he lets him. 'Since it's yer day off--'  
'M'not going to your place.'  
'Oi! Lemme finish! Didn't Gin teach ya manners in school? Aren't hosts supposed to listen quietly? Was gonna say we don't need to go to the same place, since ya don't hafta go to the bar. We can go someplace round here.'

Hijikata finishes the cigarette in silence, grinds his foot against the pavement with it trapped in between.  
'Don't you have things to do?' he asks finally, not looking at Gintoki and starting on his way.  
'Like what?'  
'Dunno.'  
Gintoki grabs him by the arm, their walk suspended.  
'What is it?'  
'You saw me, at the hospital, the other time.'  
'Oh. Yeah,' he lets go, hand goes up to his hair again.  
'Well, don't ask.'  
'Wasn't going to.'

Their walk is resumed as if there had been no interruptions, as if they had some direction. This way they don't face each other.  
'And I won't.'  
'You won't? Ah, ya mean the kid? Kagura?'  
'I said I didn't wanna know.'  
'I take care of her, her dad's a real piece of work.'  
'I'm sorry to hear,' a pang, deep and unmistakeable, makes him pause his step.  
'Hm. Yer so kind, Toshi.'  
'Sorry she has to be taken care of by you,' he can't give it away.  
'Oi, take it back! Gin's great at takin’ care of her! Wasn't Gin a great teacher, huh?'  
'Pfft.'  
'S'fine, though. Kagura's at her father's this week, sometimes he shows up. Gin is free tonight.'  
'I see. D'ya know any places around?'  
'Yeah.'

 

Gintoki navigates them through the streets. Hijikata buries his hands in his sleeves, it's cold, and he buries all kinds of thoughts about Gintoki looking after a girl with a hard family, all kinds of attempts to draw any sort of line towards Kondou. It'll only bring that back, and with it anger and resentment and all that loathing he keeps strictly bound within himself, to his youth, to his own naivety, his stupidity, the very thought of telling the teacher and being told 'I'm not Kondou,' and then still giving in, months later. He can't make this sort of comparison or it'll never end, so he blows it away with another cigarette.

 

When they arrive at their destination Hijikata barely gathers that the place is smaller than the eatery, and he won't even take note of it but Gintoki has to open his mouth.  
'Remember that place back home? By the river?'  
'Yeah, what about it?'  
'Food here tastes like that.'  
'Don't believe you.'  
'I'm telling ya.'

They place their orders, and though Hijikata's about to go for the beer, Gintoki suggests sake, because it's a day off, and he nods in silence, lighting a cigarette while they sit at their table, taking the sake with them.  
'Enjoyed yourself?'  
'Hm?'  
'The movie,' Gintoki asks from behind his cup.  
'Yeah. I'd never seen it in a big screen.'  
'Why d'ya like Ninkyo so much?'  
'Why d'ya like Jump so much?'  
'Why not! Jump is important, all men should be boys at heart, y'know, crystallization of this and that.'  
'"Effort, friendship, victory"?'  
'No, no, that's not it at all...'  
'M'not surprised effort is a thing you think ain't important.'  
'What's that supposed to mean?'  
'Take a guess.'  
'You haven't answered.'  
'Hm. These people, followin’ their own bushido, even while doin’ what they do, and you know no matter where they were they'd follow it, cause it's theirs,' he says and he can feel the itch rising from his neck to his face to his ears. 'I think it's impressive, admirable,' taking drags off his cigarette and sips off his sake doesn't help much with the itch crawling down his back, but Gintoki's silent so he dares look at his face.  
'What is it?' Hijikata asks because Gintoki keeps staring.  
'N'thin’, ya reminded me of somethin’ else,' he's serious and looks so focused.  
Hijikata thinks about how little he knows of him.  
'Of what?'  
'How deceptive your looks are, so cool but then ya open yer mouth...'  
'Oi, what the fuck's that for?'  
Gintoki digs into his nose and he's about to say something when the food finally comes. Whatever it is, Hijikata might never hear it.

Hijikata puts the cigarette out and takes his chopsticks in what must look like a swift fluid motion that brings food into his mouth. Suddenly he's back home, in that miserable town. He can hear the river running close by, and the chatter of the patrons, the owners laughing in the background, even Kondou's booming laughter, slapping him on the back, leaves rustling over the sound of running water outside, the curtains, floors warmed by the passing of people all day long. He's sitting there alone, or with others, he's discussing movies with Kondou and pretending he doesn't picture Mr Sakata perfectly in a Ninkyo role, despite all evidence to the contrary, because somehow, somehow, somehow, and then he's running into that same teacher there, at the place by the river, once or twice, nodding in recognition, Kondou sometimes shakes his hand and thanks him for taking care of Hijikata, and Gintoki pretends he's any sort of respectable adult, then Kondou's offering to buy him a drink some time, in the future—he never does, never did—and Gintoki takes this on with disinterest and boredom and in spite of his stupid face Hijikata feels some kind of loathsome warmth he tries to kick away, telling Kondou they have to leave already, right now.

 

'See? What'd I tell ya?' Gintoki asks him.  
'Eh, it's okay.'  
'Yer never honest.'

He looks at Gintoki's face in silence, for too long before he catches himself. Already they're at their second bottle, probably because they have more time since Hijikata doesn't have to leave soon in order to keep drinking somewhere else, with other people who pay for him to.

'It's fine.'  
'Yeah, yeah.'

The meals are finished in silence, Gintoki orders another bottle, and Hijikata wishes he could wash away the taste, the smell, the sounds from long ago with more sake, but it only makes them sharper, some words play back at him like they always do in dreams. Not always, it's been a while, he realises now that they've returned. It's been some weeks that the words haven't played from the recesses of his mind, and it's been easier to sleep without them as well, but now they're back and he loses the will to argue.

 

Gintoki takes his hand across the table, distractedly, as if he didn't really want to, and Hijikata looks at the pair of hands, the calluses etched onto their palms. He never asked Gintoki why he has them but he imagines a reason, so he slides his index finger through them, rough and cold.

'You really like me, don't you?'  
It feels like a bad joke so Hijikata simply stares, frowning just barely.  
'Oi, don't look so dumb,' Gintoki speaks into his sake.  
'You're a fucking idiot.'  
'Hm.'  
'If ya know it then don't...'

Hijikata himself wonders what he means by it, which one of the things Gintoki should know, but, if he wonders as well, Gintoki doesn't ask. It's been so long, he's lost count of all the times he's wished he didn't carry the crushing weight of things transpired between them. Their hands retreat from one another and he waits for the silence weighing down their shared distances to push Gintoki into leaving, it always does the trick at the bar.

 

'Yeah, well, it's hard to care for others,' he opens his mouth instead. They've both lost this round. 'S'confusin’, a pain, it's a pain. M'not sure I got what it takes, y'know? Easier not to bother with all of that, it's a pain.'  
They've drunk too much.  
'What d'you mean?' his voice feels to him barely a whisper, coarse with smoke. Gintoki's not looking at him.  
'Argh, it's a pain, see? Even explainin’. S'a pain to let them care for ya, too. A bother, it's hard. Better not go through it all the way or all at once. S'a pain.'

Whatever thread of relief or understanding that comes to Hijikata with these words is cushioned by the alcohol, made easier to swallow, as if he were able to simply accept that there is some semblance of relief and understanding that fits so well into the emptiness and changes pain into something else, not better but certainly far from worse. He says nothing save for a nod lest he let escape that there is relief or understanding, no matter how cushioned and hidden and muddled in between the headiness of drink.

'S'weird, huh?'  
On Gintoki's lips, his gaze elsewhere, there's that empty joyless smile that Hijikata recognises and sees through too well, and he wishes too hard he didn't.

'No, it isn't. S'not weird,' he pauses because he feels himself about to trespass uncharted territories he's told himself not to follow into, about to tear down dams and watch water flow, slowly, unsurely. 'S'not weird. Y'know for me it's a pain to... to be intimate, with people, y'know? Ph-physically, I mean. I don't think what you said s'weird.'  
He said it already so he dares look up again, towards Gintoki, who's scowling, in horror it seems.  
'No, no, no, Toshi, that's really fuckin’ weird! You're sick, ya need to get checked!'  
With all the force he can muster from across the small table, and through all the alcohol in his system—he's lost count—Hijikata kicks Gintoki's left leg with his right foot under the table.  
'You're the one who needs to get checked!'  
'Oi, horrible temper!' Gintoki's rubbing his shin, frown trying to cover up his stupid mocking smile. 'Why'd ya become a host then?' he asks after they both drink one more cup.

 

Ah, there it is, there it is. Words coming back, too, cluttered in with the relief and understanding, and sour taste, words about his future, the many bright options, the broad path opened up in front of him, made possible by Kondou's kindness, words about the way he looked and the way others looked at him and how easy it would be, how fast, to begin—but never fully—to repay some small fractions of that kindness in this way, the only way he could right then, right there, after he ran the corridor in the hospital and Sougo looked like that—he hated it—and the doctors said it could improve soon or not soon or never or now. It was the only option, back then.

 

Time and space in a spiral, in a whirlpool inside his small sake cup. He's not sure how long he's been in silence, one sip of the cup, three hours, or ever since that day at the hospital when Kondou'd fallen ill and he'd thought about Gintoki and wondered what the advice he would never ask for would be.

'Looks,' he mumbles, more slurred than he wants to.  
'Huh?'  
'We needed the money. Then it stuck. I got stuck.'  
'Hm. S'good, then, you've helped. M'sure he's proud.'  
Gintoki turns to ask for another bottle, nags at the owner over something, and when he turns he looks surprised, probably to see a smile on Hijikata.  
'I know, he is.'

 

They step out into the night, their arms linked together, and Gintoki misses a step when he looks up at the clouds. Doesn't look like rain. Hijikata catches him and then his lips are caught by Gintoki's, there's sake in both of their warm inhales, but it feels fine, and he pushes Gintoki away when he realises he's smiling too much.  
'See ya tomorrow then,' he whispers, their faces close together.  
'Huh?'  
'M'not goin’ to yer place.'  
'I know that! Whatja take me for, oi,' Gintoki's whispering is louder, closer.  
'An idiot,' and then his lips are on Gintoki's again, slow and soft.  
'See ya tomorrow,' Gintoki says, a warm breeze on his face. 'And the day after that.'

 

**Author's Note:**

> what a performance tonight  
> the mask beneath the mask above the other mask
> 
> thank you to hik for all the help


End file.
